Honorable Intentions
by geekmama
Summary: Everything considered, it was the only logical way to proceed. - Post Season 3, spoilers for same.
1. In an English Country Garden

_**~ In an English Country Garden ~**_

 _For the "Outsides" prompt_

 _ **-o-o-o-**_

"You like gardens," Sherlock said.

Molly eyed him, puzzled at this non-sequitur. They had been discussing the body that lay on the table before them, one Mr. Harold Eugene Clapham, aged sixty-nine, death from natural causes, an acute myocardial infarction. Gardens didn't seem to enter into it.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and Molly noted the tips of his ears turning an interesting shade of pink. However, he carried on manfully. "Would you like to drive out to see one? On your day off tomorrow?"

"A garden? Really?" Molly smiled, surprised and delighted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit. "Molly, it's not as though I've never asked you out."

She frowned. "But-"

"Of course, you were still engaged to Tom at the time."

"Do you mean when you asked me along to solve crimes in John's place?"

"Precisely. And I offered to take you for fish and chips."

Molly raised a brow.

Sherlock deflated somewhat. "Doesn't count?"

She took pity on him and smiled once more. "Well… perhaps not. But I do like gardens."

"Yes. Right. Pick you up at nine then?"

 **-o-o-o-**

It seemed to be quite a long drive out to the particular garden Sherlock had in mind, but Molly happily watched the scenery go by, content just to absorb the delicious late spring day. The car was sleek, black and luxuriously comfortable; Sherlock seemed a good driver, in spite of the lack of legal benediction ("A rental?" "No, nicked it from Mycroft. _He_ won't object to an expired license. Not that I gave him the opportunity."); and halfway to their destination they stopped at a charming historic inn for some excellent refreshments.

They left the motorway shortly after that and for more than an hour meandered along a series of complicated rural byways. Sherlock never had recourse to GPS, nor did he miss a turn.

"You know this area well," Molly observed.

"Mmmm," was his only reply.

She elected not to press him, but turned back to the window, losing herself in the beauty of the sunny countryside. The warmth, the smooth ride, and the surfeit of tea and scones all conspired against her and she only found that she'd dozed off when the car at last glided to a stop.

"Here we are. Enjoy your nap?"

Molly flushed, muttered, "Sorry," and sat up to look around. They had pulled up next to a small white picket gate that was topped with an arch of exuberantly vining miniature roses in a delicate shade of pink. The gate was the only gap visible in a tall, well pruned hedge, but through it one could catch a tantalizing glimpse of a vast and colorful garden with a large cottage, painted a warm rust-red, in the distance beyond it. "This is a private home, isn't it?"

"Yes, but the owners won't mind. I'm quite familiar with them." He got out, shutting his door, and came around to open hers.

She set her hand in his proffered one and was surprised when he retained it after helping her from the car, He didn't bother locking his borrowed (stolen?) conveyance, merely closed her passenger door and proceeded to lead her to the garden gate and then inside.

Presently, however, he was obliged to release her. The garden was too simply too gorgeous and he was reduced to following in her wake as she explored in ecstatic wonder, discovering one treasure after another: roses of many shades and cultivars; beds of daisies, dianthus, and bellflower punctuated with tall spikes of foxglove and delphinium; coral bells; bleeding hearts; great mounds of hydrangea and peony; an ancient and very climbable oak with an old but possibly still functional treehouse in its branches.

Sherlock came up with her as she studied the structure. "Is that a skull and crossbones on the side of that treehouse?" she asked.

"Somewhat faded, but yes. And it's a pirate ship, not a treehouse."

She stared at him. "Is it?"

"Obviously."

She turned again to the… _Pirate Ship_ … an odd but charming vision entering her head. Her lips quivered against a grin.

"Come see the herb garden," Sherlock said, turning her firmly away, then catching up her hand again. He lead her in the direction of the house. "The lavender is coming into bloom."

The lavender beds were indeed impressive, and there was a wide variety of herbs more suited to cooking. A small vegetable garden also lay close by, with spring offerings like spinach and lettuces and green peas climbing up poles, and a newly cultivated area waiting for a summer planting.

"Sherlock!"

Molly looked up to see an older gentleman ambling toward them from the door of the house, a cardigan and bow tie setting off his comfortable country garb.

"Why, this is wonderful! How good it is to see you, my boy. And you've brought a _guest!_ A very pretty one, too." The gentleman raised his brows in provocative inquiry.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice somewhat strained. "My… um... pathologist. And friend. Dr. Molly Hooper. Molly, this is my father, Vernet Holmes."

Molly, not entirely surprised, held out her hand. "How do you do, sir?"

Mr. Holmes senior had all the sparkle and courtly behavior his son was lacking (at least at that moment). He took her hand and bowed over it, kissing the air just above her fingers, then, straightened to his full height (nearly the equal of Sherlock's) and said with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm charmed to meet you, my dear, the more so as I believe this is the first time Sherlock has ever brought a guest of the _female persuasion_ to the house. You must be a special lady indeed."

Sherlock, said stiffly (and unwisely), "No. I brought Mary Watson, Christmas before last."

A little of the good humor left his father's expression and he eyed his son. "So you did."

Molly thought she heard Sherlock choking a bit.

But Mr. Holmes' gaze soon returned to her, warming again, and he squeezed her hand, which he'd retained. "I'm quite confident, that today's will be a far more conventional and altogether happier celebration. Do you know that it's my birthday? I'm sixty-nine today."

"Sixty-nine!" Molly exclaimed, with a sideways glance at Sherlock as she recalled their conversation of the previous day, over the body of Mr. Clapham. Sherlock, however, now appeared to be studying the grass at his toes, so she merely smiled with honest pleasure at his father. "Congratulations, sir! I'm so glad to be here to celebrate with you!"

"Mother's making a cake!" he said, as though imparting a wonderful secret. "My favorite - and yours, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up. "Chocolate Walnut?"

Vernet Holmes nodded,

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit. "Mycroft's not coming, is he?"

"Not today. He'll be here tomorrow. We'll save him a piece."

"If we must," Sherlock acquiesced, his tone petulant. Then, more evenly, "Will you tell Mummy we're here? I want to show Molly the fountain and rock garden around the side before we come in."

"Certainly. Take your time. Oh, she'll be over the moon! But she's elbow deep in icing just at the moment. Come in when you're ready." He gave Molly's hand a last squeeze, winked rather slyly, and took himself off.

Sherlock watched him go, then cleared his throat and looked at Molly somewhat uncomfortably. "You're all right with this?"

"Of course I am! But Sherlock…" She held his eye. "I don't think you need to worry."

He said nothing for a moment. Then: "He was in hospital last year. Just one night. An arrhythmia. He's on some medication now." Another pause as he looked up to where his father had disappeared into the door of the house. "Claims he's a new man," he went on, his voice growing bitter. "He and my mother are off to the U.S. again next month, for some dance competition or other."

Molly shook her head, chuckling. "Oh, Sherlock!" She took his cold hand between her warm ones. "You can't keep him wrapped in cotton wool. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"And if he's not?" he demanded, looking down his nose at her.

She was not daunted. "Well, then he'll have died doing something he loves, _with_ someone he loves. No one can ask fairer than that."

There was another long pause before he conceded, "No. I suppose not."

She kept hold of his hand with one of hers and said, "Now, show me the fountain and rock garden, and then I must meet your mother."

He gave a kind of groan. "And field endless innuendo regarding her lack of grandchildren."

She laughed. "Not your area?"

His hand tightened slightly on hers. "Not thus far. Though you never know."

~.~


	2. En Famille

_**~ En Famille ~**_

 _For the "Hours" prompt_

 **-o-o-o-**

In the ensuing hours, Sherlock found that his fears were entirely justified.

One part of his brain, the cool, deductive part, saw the inevitability of it. Even accepted it.

Unfortunately, the other part, often adrenaline-laced, with panic tickling around the edges, refused to be quite subdued. This was a Bad Thing. It might lead to a variety of undesirable outcomes, anything from Words Best Left Unsaid to A New List for Mycroft.

Well, not the latter. He'd been clean for over a year now, and whenever he was at all tempted he forced himself to drag the Post-Four-Minute-Exile Molly Confrontation from that dusty cupboard in his mind palace and stare at it. God. Slapping had been so much less painful.

"Sherlock!"

He looked up. Of course Mummy had found where he'd been brooding. No, hiding. _No._ Thinking.

She beamed, a knowing look in her eye. "I shouldn't say it, of course, but if you let that young lady get away you're a greater fool than I take you for. She's delightful!"

"Mmmm. Is dinner ready?"

"We're having drinks first. Molly is making us something special: _Sex on the Beach_ , I believe."

"Good God. _Peach Schnapps?_ "

But both fell silent, their ears pricking at the distant sound of a knock followed immediately by a door opening and a familiar voice.

Sherlock bounced to his feet, scowling. " _Mycroft!_ "

By the time he and Mummy were descending the stairs, Father was happily greeting his eldest son and his eldest son's P.A., Anthea."Take off your coats, we're just about to have drinks before dinner."

"You weren't supposed to come until tomorrow," Sherlock said accusingly, reaching the foyer.

Mycroft raised a brow, his smile fading. "And you weren't supposed to steal my Jaguar XE. Yet here we are."

"Sherlock!" Mummy exclaimed. "Did you steal a government owned vehicle?"

"Noooo. Borrowed it."

"Without permission," Mycroft clarified succinctly, still giving Sherlock the gimlet eye and silently daring him to try anything untoward in Mummy's presence.

The tension was broken as Molly came into the room, bearing a tray with four tall iced drinks, complete with little umbrellas. "Mycroft!" she said in surprise.

"Miss Hooper!" Mycroft exclaimed, and glanced at Sherlock with a quizzical gleam.

Sherlock snapped, "It's _Dr._ Hooper."

Molly rolled her eyes a bit. "It's _Molly_ , or at least it should be after all these years. I'll make two more drinks. Here, take these."

Mummy, Father, and Anthea each took a glass with murmured thanks, but Mycroft, barely suppressing a shudder, said, "No, no. Give it to Sherlock. I'm not really thirsty at present."

But Sherlock relieved Molly of the tray and handed the last drink to her, saying, " You take it. I'm not really a Peach Schnapps man."

"Your loss," she said philosophically, and took a sip.

Father said, "It's delicious, Molly. And I must say: Three beautiful ladies at my birthday celebration! A surfeit of riches. We'll have a toast at dinner, when the boys have acquired something refreshing. Mother? Shall we finalize preparations for the feast?"

"May I help?" asked Anthea.

"Yes!" said Mummy, vastly pleased. "You girls come along with us. I'm sure the boys can remember how to set the table."

Sherlock and Mycroft were left standing in the foyer as the others disappeared into the kitchen.

Mycroft was the first to speak. "So. Has she remarked on Molly's _good birthing hips_ yet?"

Sherlock gave a bark of laughter. "She hasn't, but it's early."

"So it is. A whole evening _en famille_. Risky, brother mine. Very risky. But not boring, I think?"

"No. Not boring," Sherlock agreed, and smiled.

~.~


	3. Sherlock's Proposal

_**~ Sherlock's Proposal ~**_

 _For the "Days" prompt_

 **-o-o-o-**

That delightful day, the garden, Sherlock's parents, the birthday celebration, the long drive back to London in the moonlit night, all were becoming just a memory. Molly had half expected… half _hoped_ … but Sherlock's mobile had rung when they were still some way out of London.

It was Lestrade. And it was a nine. Possibly a ten.

Sherlock, afire with anticipation, would still have taken the time to walk her to her flat, but she told him no. "You won't find an easy place to park at this time of night. I'll be fine. And Lestrade needs you."

His grin was electric. "You're an angel!" he told her, and swiftly took up her hand and kissed her fingers. He did not actually say, _Now get out!_ , but she suspected it was a close run thing. She couldn't help chuckling at the sound of the Jaguar roaring away as soon as she'd set foot in the door of her building.

Amusement faded to disappointment, however, and as the days passed she began to worry. The case had taken him out of town and, with his dislike of phone conversation, they were reduced to texting. Unfortunately these were brief and infrequent.

S: It's a nine.

M: :-) Be careful.

S: Yes.

M: Are you there?

S: John's come out with us.

M: Mary told me. Be safe, both of you.

S: Almost finished.

M: When do you think you'll be back?

There was no reply to that last one, so she thought she might see him soon, in the next few hours, perhaps. But there was no sign of him, that evening, or in the next few days.

On the fourth day she sent him one more text.

M: Sherlock?

Again, no reply. Worry nagged at her and she called Mary.

But Mary said, "No, no. Untwist those knickers, my girl. John would've told me if there was anything amiss. Sherlock's just being Sherlock."

Which might be true, but was of little comfort.

And then, when she lay sleepless in bed, just after midnight on the sixth day, she _heard_ the sound of her lock being picked. Her blood ran cold, for his silent skill in this area was all too well known to her. Moreover, six months ago she'd given him his own key.

But it was he, as she saw when she jerked open the door, armed and ready with her enormous Maglite torch. "Sherlock!"

"Damn! I almost had it!" He straightened, swaying a bit, and eyed her torch with disfavor. "You're not going to hit me with that, are you?"

"Oh my God. Get in here." The torch was tossed aside, making a heavy thud as it hit the floor, and she hustled him into the brighter light of the apartment, slamming the door. "Oh my _God!_ " she said again. It was worth repeating. He was pale, even for him, and the blackened eye and cut lip stood out garishly. And there was blood, all over his right hand, dripping onto the floor. "You should have been taken to hospital!" she exclaimed angrily.

"They would have done, but I eluded them," he said with simple pride, then changed tactics, wheedling, "You can take care of it, can't you?. It's not as bad as it looks. Sorry about the blood on your carpet." He looked a little guilty, seeing the small puddle forming, bright red against the beige.

"Into the loo _now!_ " She ordered, her voice trembling with that combination of relief, fresh worry, exasperation, and laughter that only this man could produce in her. She grabbed the sleeve of his Belstaff and towed him toward the hall. "And if it's bad, I am calling a cab to take you to A&E immediately!"

"Too dull," he groaned, stumbling after her. "They'll make me wait."

"It'll serve you right. _I've_ been waiting for days!"

"I texted you!"

She emitted a sound that could only be described as a growl.

They reached their destination and, more importantly, the tile floor. Sherlock paused to examine his eye in the mirror over the sink, poking at the discoloration and grimacing a bit.

Molly said, "I'll get an ice pack for it in a minute. Let's get your coat off so I can decide about that cab."

It was a knife wound, deep but not too long, delivered right through Sherlock's sleeves, both the hideously expensive bespoke suit coat and his aubergine shirt, her favorite. A makeshift bandage had been tied around it at some point, but had long since soaked through, hence the dripping mess. Still, Sherlock was right: it was not as bad as she'd feared. Once she'd helped him remove the ruined clothing and bandage, she carefully wiped the blood away with a wet cloth. The wound could easily be sutured with the kit she kept on hand for just such occasions.

"Right then. No cab," she said, more gently, now. "Sit down there and I'll get the things."

The cut near his lip looked worse than it was, too. He held the ice pack to his eye while she took care of it, then started on his arm. This was a more painful process, but he just set his jaw and sat very still, enduring the cleaning and small injections of lidocaine without a sound. Once the drug took effect, however, he visibly relaxed, and as she began to work he showed more interest in what she was doing. He said, after a while, "You see? That's why I came to you. Neater even than John could do."

"Thank you," she said primly. "I've had lots of practice."

He gave a careful half smile. "So you have."

It took a while, and by the end he was drooping a bit. She asked him, in a casual tone, "When was the last time you ate or slept?"

He frowned, and she could see him thinking about it. Trying to remember. Trying to decide what to tell her.

When he glanced at her she raised a brow at him. "No fibbing."

He gave a sigh. "Had breakfast yesterday. Lestrade brought doughnuts."

"So that was what? Eighteen hours ago?"

"We were finishing the case!"

"You told me that. Six days ago."

He shrugged slightly.

"Don't move!" she snapped.

"There were complications."

"Six days worth. It _must_ have been a ten."

"No. A nine, though." After a pause he said, "Sorry about the lack of texts."

"You do need to work on that."

Suturing complete, she applied an antibacterial salve and had just begun to wrap when they heard a knock on her front door.

Sherlock said, "It's John. Don't answer it."

"Of course I'm going to answer it. She called, "Come in, John!"

Sherlock winced.

Presently John appeared in the doorway of the loo. "Well, well! Not so pretty now, are we?"

Sherlock eyed John resentfully. "Shut up."

Molly smiled. "Hello, John."

"Hello, Molly. I hope you gave him hell for ruining your carpet."

"Saving it for later. He's nearly all in, I'm afraid."

"Am not," Sherlock grumped.

"And no wonder," said John. "Thought he'd met his match with that big red-haired Armenian bloke at the end. Can I see the arm?"

"No," said Sherlock, even as Molly said, "Of course!"

The patient made no further objection, however, as Molly unwrapped the arm.

John gave a low whistle. "Nice work, Molls! Deep, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Hence the carpet. He'll need a strong antibiotic."

"Come by the surgery in the morning and I'll give him a jab."

"No," said Sherlock. "Write a prescription for pills."

"You'll forget to take 'em."

"Molly will remind me."

Molly shook her head. "Until you're called out on another case, or something else gets in the way. No, we'll see you in the morning, John. I'll bring him by."

Sherlock groaned. "You both just enjoy sticking me with needles."

"Of course," said John.

Molly chuckled. "Will you stay for tea, John? I'm going to feed him when I've got this arm wrapped."

"No, have to get back to Mary and the sprog. God, I've missed them - but this was great, truly. Don't hesitate to call me again, Sherlock. Can't rot in the suburbs all the time. See you both in the morning, eh?"

He took himself off.

Sherlock sat quiet and disgruntled while she finished the neat bandage.

"Right!" she said at last. "No more pouting, now. Come into the kitchen and I'll fix you something to eat."

"Not hungry," he muttered. But he slowly rose to his feet, and rather unhappily surveyed the mess all around him.

"I'll tidy up later, don't worry."

"I'll pay for the carpet to be cleaned."

"Yes, you will," she told him, but with a smile.

 **-o-o-o-**

She got him to agree to a couple of Weetabix with milk and sugar which he ate in silence while she sipped a cup of tea and watched. Her heart swelled with love of him: battered, brilliant, and beautiful, even now. _Oh Molly_ , she thought. _You've got it Bad. All the B things._ She chuckled aloud at this, and he looked up from his cereal.

"You're laughing at me," he said, pale eyes narrowing a bit under the dark, tousled curls.

"No," she said. "I'm laughing at me."

 **-o-o-o-**

Half an hour later they were settled in bed together. Sherlock had always kept to his side of the bed in the past - well, mostly - but now he lay close and warm, his bandaged arm draped across her.

Why couldn't the rest of her life be like this?

His breathing had begun to deepen and even out, but suddenly he gave a small jerk and stirred. Curled closer.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Take you to breakfast tomorrow."

"That would be nice. After you see John at the surgery."

He gave a non-committal _Hmmm_. Then, "We can shop for that ring after."

Time stopped, briefly. "What ring is that?" It was a miracle she didn't stutter.

"Engagement, of course. Silly Molly."

She was silent for a moment, then managed, "Sherlock... are you asking me to marry you?"

"Already did."

She frowned into the darkness. "No, you did not. We've only gone on the one date!"

"What's that to do with it? And I did ask you. Remember distinctly." He pressed his face closer, between her neck and shoulder and breathed in deeply.

She said, rather faintly, "But you didn't! Would I be likely to forget such a thing?"

"Must have," he said, but then she could feel him frown, and he drew away slightly. "Thought you loved me."

"I do! I mean… you know damn well-"

"Language, Miss Hooper."

She laughed, torn between hope and despair.

"Talk about it in the morning," he said, nuzzling again. "God, you smell good."

"Better than red-haired Armenian giants?"

"Soooo much better. You've no idea…"

~.~


	4. Sherlock's Proposal (Reprise)

_**~ Sherlock's Proposal (Reprise) ~**_

 _For the "Weeks" prompt_

 **-o-o-o-**

"Ah! Nothing like the smell of isopropyl in the morning," John said with facetious cheer, swabbing his chosen target area. "All right, my lad. This might sting a bit."

Sherlock, ordinarily stoic, even in the most trying of circumstances, gave a slight start and hiss, then blasphemed spectacularly between set teeth as John administered a hefty dose of Penicillin G via intramuscular injection.

When it was finally over, John said with singular inaccuracy, "There, told you: quick as a wink."

"Sadistic bastard," Sherlock replied, throwing a murderous glare over his shoulder. He pulled up his briefs and trousers again, carefully restoring his sartorial excellence with what dignity he could muster. At least Molly had seen the necessity of a fresh suit of clothing before she'd practically frog-marched him into this abattoir.

"Taking her out to breakfast now?" John asked, his good humor unabated. Probably even _enhanced_ by his victim's suffering.

Sherlock, not ready to forgive, merely said, "Yes. Balthazar."

John gave a low whistle. "Nice! You're making quite the effort these days."

Sherlock turned to John, still eyeing him with disapprobation for a moment before his lips quivered against a smile and he sensed color tinging his cheeks. "I've asked her to marry me."

John stared. "Oh. My. God! Mary said you would and I didn't believe her."

"Why not? It makes perfect sense. An eminently logical outcome to our long-standing professional and social relationship. We're shopping for a ring after breakfast."

John gave a shout of laughter and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Congratulations! By God, there's hope for you yet. Who'd have thought it?"

"Mary, apparently," Sherlock said, dryly

"So she did!" John grinned. "Look, why don't you and Molls come to our place for dinner tonight? I'll pick up some champagne and we'll have a bit of a celebration!"

Sherlock, his ill humor assuaged by John's sincere joy, said regretfully, "I'm afraid we can't tonight. I've made a reservation at Angelo's. I'm going to propose to her there."

John looked suddenly nonplussed. "But… didn't you say you'd asked her?"

"I did. In a manner of speaking. I was thinking about it all the time we were away on the case."

"All the time? You seemed fairly focused to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit. "Oh, John! I had the case solved within the first thirty-six hours. The rest was just tedious clean-up, really."

John looked annoyed. "Is that right? Then why wasn't I informed _so I could go back to my wife and kid?_ "

"You needed the time away. Trust me, you've come back a new man. Mary understands these things. And Grace understands almost nothing as yet. I doubt _she_ missed you at all."

It was John looking daggers, now. Sherlock, sensing he might have said something unfortunate, cleared his throat and moved on quickly. "As I said, I was thinking about it all the time we were gone, rehearsing what I would say, what she would do. The entire conversation, everything worked out. But last night…"

"Yes?" John prompted, beginning to be amused again.

"Well, apparently I wasn't at my best. I believe I must have been half asleep when I mentioned shopping for her engagement ring. She told me I'd never asked her to marry me, but that seemed absurd at the time. I could have sworn… But of course I realized my mistake when I woke up this morning." He left John for a moment and made a brief foray into his Mind Palace…

 **-o-o-o-**

The sun was shining thinly through the lace curtains of Molly's bedroom window and her scent still lingered faintly when Sherlock's eyes fluttered open that morning. But she was gone, her side of the bed was cold. He frowned, perplexed, but then thought, _It's only her kindness, she knew I hadn't slept lately_.

He thought back to the previous night. The injuries had been unpleasant - he reached up to probe the sensitive bruised flesh under his eye, and moved his lip experimentally - _not too bad_ \- and he had always had an aversion to the suturing process. But placing himself in Molly's hands had been the perfect solution. He'd known her care of him would be exemplary. She had the supplies needed to patch him up. Her home was entirely familiar to him. And more than all these things was the knowledge that she loved him. She had seen him at his best and at his worst, and still… _still_ …

Her love had never failed, though it had been severely tested. She had a prejudice against illegal narcotics that bordered on obsession - probably due to her particular line of work. The last time he'd been high in her presence, when he'd come to fetch her to safety after his four minute exile, it had taken every bit of patience, logic, and skill at persuasion he possessed, as well as the combined efforts of Mycroft and the Watsons, to convince her she should come to Baker Street until the situation could be sorted. The fact that she'd not been informed of his intended fate, and that he'd planned to take "a coward's way out" as she put it - and he was still not convinced that departing this world on his own terms, rather than by inches in an East European torture chamber, should be viewed in that light - combined to bring out her latent stubbornness to a remarkable degree.

In the end, she had acquiesced, but once established in his home she had refused to speak to him for days, and after that had treated him with an icy civility that took weeks to thaw. It had made him furious, and it was only the knowledge - easily deduced - that she was equally unhappy with the barrier that lay between them that helped him keep his temper in check. Up to a point.

He couldn't even remember what had set him off at last, but he had said things to her… terrible things… and with almost no justification. And finally, for the first time in all those weeks, he had made her weep.

He'd followed her to her room and stopped her from packing, from throwing her meager belongings into her suitcase. He pinned her squirming, shuddering body against his and said, over her sobbing demands to be released, "Don't Molly. Don't. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry…"

She'd stopped struggling at last, and said, "You are a t-terrible b-bastard!"

"I am. I'm sorry. Please don't leave. Please."

She'd turned in his arms to face him. And he'd kissed her, desperately, his own tears combining with hers.

It had been very messy, and was rather horrid to recall. But the next day they had been friends again: shy and tentative, but friends. A week after that it had been deemed safe for her to return to her flat. And a week after that, he'd come to her in the night, seeking a bolthole. Just like old times.

But not really. For somewhere in those weeks of solving the "Faux-riarty" case by day and dealing with his prickly resident ice princess by night, he'd realized how necessary she was to him, how much he valued her regard, how dear to him was her companionship.

They took things very slowly (when had they not?). In six months she'd presented him with a key to her flat, saying, "At least you won't need to pick the lock any more." She made it clear she would welcome him at any time. She asked very little of him. But an idea had taken shape in his head (and heart, he supposed), of having her with him always, and for the last six months he had been planning to tell her just that.

That day at his parents' home, followed by their forced separation during the case, had brought it all to the fore. After years of practice he could compartmentalize this thoughts with great efficiency, and while he was solving a mystery and dealing with a most unsavory criminal element, he was also planning his Molly Proposal, in excruciating detail. In his head.

All in his head.

And suddenly he remembered their conversation of the previous night. "Stupid!" he groaned, and got out of bed.

She was sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea before her again. There was a little wariness in her eyes as she looked up at him, but it changed to affectionate amusement.

"You look a sight," she said, smiling, and there was love in her eyes.

He knew he was not himself. Clad only in briefs, his hair untidy from sleep, all unwashed. He sat down in the chair that lay at a right angle to hers and took up her beautiful little hand from where it lay on the table. "But you don't mind."

She was looking at their hands, her cheeks growing pink. "Of course not," she said, rather huskily.

He had never been more glad of his ability to deduce her. For it was obvious to him that not only didn't she mind, she was deeply happy that she was here with him, in this particular way, imperfect as he was.

She, however, had washed her face, brushed her (delicious, silken) hair, and was wearing a most attractive pale yellow sleep-tee with kittens on the front. "You look beautiful."

Her eyes widened. "Thank you!"

Her wariness was returning and he knew he must speak.

He cleared his throat. "Did I mention shopping for a… a ring today?"

She opened her mouth, to tell him it was all right, she knew it had been only been a mistake made when he was on the edge of passing out from weariness after an unconscionably long day. But she closed it again, reconsidered, and merely said, "Yes."

He tried to carefully choose his words. "I seem to have put the cart before the horse, as it were. But you've said Yes to my proposal so many times over the last weeks that, being half asleep, I forgot I hadn't verbalized it as yet. Nor had you, in reality, replied."

She stared, and her hand trembled a little in his loose grasp. "So many times? You… you were-"

"Planning it. Yes."

"Then you… _meant_ it."

He smiled. "Would you still be amenable to shopping for a ring this morning? I'll take you to dinner - at Angelo's, he'll cater to our every need and be happy to do so - and I'll make my proposal to you. All that planning shouldn't go to waste."

"Sherlock!" she breathed, and then was up, rounding the corner of the table.

It was the most natural thing in the world to draw her onto his lap, into his embrace, and kiss her.

It was like coming home.

For Christmas.

 **-o-o-o-**

" _Sherlock!_ "

John's sharp tone was jarring at such a time, but such was Sherlock's happiness that he forgave his friend immediately. For that, at least. He briefly, surreptitiously, rubbed at his sore hip.

But just then the door opened and Molly peeked in. "Is everything alright?"

John grinned. "Everything's fine, more than fine. Sherlock's just been faffing about in his Mind Palace-"

Sherlock stiffened. " _Faffing about?_ "

"-but before that he told me you were… er… shopping for a ring this morning."

Molly blushed prettily and said, "After breakfast, yes." She picked up Sherlock's Belstaff from where it lay draped over a chair and brought it over to him. As he put it on, she said to John, "He told you, then?"

"He did - in his round-about way. He's a lucky man. Or will be?" He shook his head at Sherlock. "Do you never do things like normal people?"

Sherlock heard Mycroft's voice in his head - _Goldfish!_ \- but shoved it aside and merely smiled. He said to John, "You'll be my Best Man - won't you?" This last, a little uncertainly.

But he needn't have worried. John's smile widened to a delighted grin and Sherlock could almost see the wheels spinning. "This," John told them, "is going to be _Brilliant!_ " He actually rubbed his hands together.

Sherlock gave a sigh at the vast potential for upheaval and embarrassment that lay before him. "Don't bother asking Mycroft to the Stag Do, he won't come."

"For his baby brother? Of course he'll come!"

Sherlock, realizing this might actually be true, had now had enough. He turned to Molly. "Please can we go to breakfast? I hear Balthazar serves excellent Bloody Marys. I feel the _need_."

Molly asked John, "Would that be alright? With the antibiotic?"

John said, "Oh, yeah. One won't hurt, at least. But make sure he eats something, too. You know how he is. The Management of Sherlock Holmes is not something to be taken lightly."

"Very true," she agreed, to Sherlock's chagrin, and looked up at him with a thoughtful smile.

~.~


	5. Intervention

_**~ Intervention ~**_

 _For the "Months" prompt_

 _ **-o-o-o-**_

"Molly! Over here!" Mary called, standing up from her chair at the outdoor cafe table where she'd been waiting. She waved and Molly returned it with a bright smile, hurrying across the square. Mary watched her approach with real pleasure. It'd been ages (well, a couple of months), and Sherlock's intended was looking perfectly adorable in what was obviously a new turnout: slim jeans (in a pretty deep blue flowered pattern - this _was_ Molly Hooper), a lighter blue knit tunic jumper, and matching ballet flats and tiny crossbody bag. "That is a great look on you!" Mary said as her friend approached.

"Thanks! Sherlock likes it, too. I've been updating my wardrobe a bit."

As they embraced briefly, Mary warned, "You're going to spoil that man. Best be careful about that."

"He's the one doing the spoiling," Molly replied as they took their seats. "When he gets the chance, at least. You know how it's been."

Mary gave a slight wince. "All those private cases they've been taking. They pay so much that John doesn't feel he can pass them up, even if it keeps him away more than he'd like. Than _I'd_ like. And nothing above a four or five. I'm surprised Sherlock hasn't perished of boredom!"

"Well, it's partly to pay for the wedding, and I do agree it would be ridiculous to burden our parents with any of the cost when we've been independent adults for years. But when I look at the balance in our account… we could pay for it twice over!"

Mary nodded. "Gracie's got a nicely padded school fund building, and I must say it's nice to be able to afford to have a housekeeper several times a week. _But_..."

"Yes, _but_ …" Molly agreed, lightly, but there was a distinctly wistful tone there, too. However, she smiled and asked, "How is Gracie? She must be getting so big! I haven't seen her since her birthday party."

"She's toddling about and getting into everything. It's as well for her she's cute as she can stare. And at least she's sleeping more now."

Molly looked envious. "If you need us to watch her some evening…."

Mary chuckled. "Are you sure you should be speaking for Sherlock?"

"He _loves_ Gracie! You saw how good he was with her at the party."

"I did. I believe he thinks of her as an interesting object of research. No baby talk, but I can't fault the focused attention he paid her."

"He was very sweet with her!"

"So he was," Mary admitted, remembering the sight of the Consulting Detective carrying her small daughter about, his deep voice murmuring an educational description of the Watson Environment and commending her behavior _in such demanding yet tedious circumstances._ "He'll make a good dad when the time comes."

Molly flushed faintly, and her smile seemed a trifle forced, Mary thought.

Mary's cocked her head. She said, "Soooo...wedding plans going well?"

Molly brightened. "We were trying to keep the guest list to a reasonable number, but it seems impossible. I had no idea Sherlock's extended family was so… _extended_. There are even some cousins coming over from the continent, Germany _and_ France! He's not happy about it, but what can we do?"

"Elope?" said Mary, wrinkling her nose.

"He suggested that at one point, and I think he'd insist on it if he didn't believe his mother would be devastated. He loves her dearly, and in the past… well, he wasn't the easiest child."

Mary gave a snort. "Or man. By this time she probably qualifies for sainthood! But I'm amazed he's perceptive enough to realize she _deserves_ a wedding."

Molly nodded. " _I_ think she does, too. She's so excited! And my mother is very pleased, of course. There will be a decent number of Hoopers in attendance. But when I think of the total, the crowd we're going to have… it's just not at all what I'm used to. What _we're_ used to! Originally I was hoping it would be more like _your_ wedding. Beautiful, and just the right size."

"It was, wasn't it?" Mary agreed, thinking back. The wedding, the honeymoon, the first month… before Magnussun's casual, devastating communication - and Mary's own trust issues - brought it all tumbling down. Or nearly did. It had been horrible to live through, but she now believed it was thanks to Sherlock that she and John were still together, with more happiness, and more _honesty_ between them than she'd ever hoped to enjoy with another human being.

And now Sherlock, that singular, maddening, _heroic_ man, was marrying, too - marrying this darling creature who'd been hopelessly in love with him for years. Well, Molly was hopeless no longer, and they _must_ be happy. They _must!_

Mary summoned a teasing gleam. "But how is it otherwise? Are the nights _sizzling_ at 221B - when he's at home?"

Molly gave a chuckle that was meant to be casual, but was in reality merely uncomfortable, and Mary detected a slight deer-in-the-headlights look about her.

But before either of them could say anything more, the waiter stepped up to take their order, and by the time he'd departed Molly had regained her composure.

"I haven't been staying in Baker Street," Molly said, lightly. "We've both been so busy with work. And with the wedding. He stays at my flat when he can - when he's in town and I'm not on a late shift. But with work..."

"-and the wedding," Mary supplied. "Then I take it he's not shagging you into the mattress five nights out of seven."

Molly choked a bit at this blunt appraisal. "Um… No. We… he…. "

Mary pursed her lips. "Molly! Don't tell me the Holmes boys really _are_ the Iceman and the Virgin?"

Molly burst out laughing, genuinely amused. "Where did _that_ come from?"

"Irene Adler, according to John."

Molly huffed a bit at that name. "Well, she was wrong. It's just… been a while. We're taking things… er… slowly."

Mary stared, brows raised.

Molly immediately came to Sherlock's defense. "It's not a problem! We've agreed… when the moment's right..."

"Say, the wedding night?" Mary suggested.

"Well… maybe."

Mary eyed her, with concern, sympathy, and some amusement. "Molly, you do realize that's still over four months away."

" _I_ _know that!_ _"_ Molly snapped. Then, disconsolately, "I know that."

 **-o-o-o-**

MW: Oi! Come to the house ASAP. Need you.

Sherlock stared at the text. The "Oi!" seemed to preclude anything too serious, yet Mary rarely sent texts, and never (in his experience) frivolous ones. He was loath to ignore the summons.

He texted back.

SH: Issue?

MW: The Molly Problem

His eyebrows shot up at this, and he felt very odd, a chill about his heart.

SH: Elaborate.

MW: At the house. See you soon.

Sherlock scowled. He knew John wasn't there, he'd sent him out of town to research another of the unconscionably dull (but lucrative) cases they'd been taking in the effort to try to build a little nest egg (and pay for The Damned Wedding), and Molly wouldn't be off work until nine. He cursed, and, much against his usual inclination, tried to phone Mary, but she didn't pick up. Extremely annoyed that there seemed to be nothing for it, he put on his scarf and Belstaff, turning up the collar as usual in spite of the mild spring day, and went to hail a cab.

Half an hour later, Mary opened the door to him, smiling, but with a glint in her eye that was both teasing and sympathetic.

"What _Molly Problem_?" he demanded in icy accents.

But she only replied, mildly, "Come in the kitchen. I've made tea for us," and turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock to show himself in and shut the door.

She was pouring out at their small kitchen table when he stalked in. "Where's Grace?" he asked.

"Diana - our housekeeper - is taking her to the park and then the market, so we've plenty of time. Sit down."

He registered a feeling of disappointment at the absence of the baby - she was a fascinating little creature - but shoved that aside and said, suspiciously, "Time for what, precisely?" Reluctantly he sat down and accepted a cup of tea.

"Time to talk," she said, taking the chair opposite his and taking a sip from her own cup. "Ah, that's good."

Sherlock ground his teeth slightly. "Mary…"

"Sherlock." She set the cup down and faced him squarely, a half smile on her lips but a serious look in her .eye. "I love you and Molly dearly."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

She went on, "I owe you a great deal-"

"You do," he agreed, grimly.

"-and I am determined to promote your happiness. With that in mind, I would like you to answer one thing: What are you playing at?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I've seen you with Molly far too many times not to know you love her and, in spite of your being the brilliant and eccentric Sherlock Holmes, you want her in every way a man wants a women. So again: _what are you playing at?_ "

Sherlock, conscious of a fiery spot growing on either cheek, said icily, "This is none of your business."

"You're right, it's not," she replied evenly, to his surprise. "And I wouldn't be saying anything except that she's so plainly unhappy with the situation."

Sherlock gaped. "She told you that?"

"Oh, no. She didn't say much at all, and would likely be furious that I'm talking to you about it. No, I deduced it."

Sherlock's gape began to fade to consternation and embarrassment. Only Mycroft rivaled Mary at deducing people - and Mary really had the advantage in that she actually saw them as _people_ ,

Mary raised a brow, not smiling at all now.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "We… we're taking it slowly-"

"She told me that. And that it had been a while. _Have_ you made love to her in the past?"

Sherlock became aware that he was gaping again. He closed his mouth and shifted in his chair, sitting up very straight. "We… after I… died…"

Mary nodded. "You stayed at her flat?"

"Just the one night. Mycroft had everything arranged for my departure the following morning. But I wouldn't call it… it was more about me… as it always had been. I had a number… quite a number of… _encounters._ At university."

"Which you entered at sixteen."

"Yes." Sherlock, almost perforce, thought back to the boy he'd been. His intelligence and fire to know everything did not save him from the social jungle of university life, and he'd been easy prey for "the wrong crowd", high-strung, naive, and… and _pretty_ as he'd been. It was all so very sordid, and he rarely allowed himself to think of it. He said to Mary stiffly, "But all that is beside the point. I want to do things correctly this time. _Better_. I'm… I'm researching the question."

To his chagrin, Mary gave a crow of laughter. "I _knew_ it!" Then seeing his expression, she went on, "Oh, don't be stroppy. It's just like you, to make something so beautifully simple more complicated than it needs to be."

Sherlock said, angrily, "If it's so simple, why is three-quarters of the world's literature and art devoted to sly references to its every aspect. Not to mention the idiotic magazines and tabloids, and the pornography that's like a plague of locusts all over the internet?"

Mary was still grinning. "Research not going as well as you'd have liked, eh?"

"No," Sherlock said, morosely. He had to admit, he too had been growing somewhat dissatisfied with the situation of late. He glared at Mary who, from her expression, could obviously read every thought in his head. "So do you have any useful suggestions?"

"As a matter of fact…" she said, rising from her chair. She went over to the small secretary in the corner of the room that she and John used to store bills and other paperwork, opened the front and took out a pad of paper and a pen. She brought them over to Sherlock and handed them to him, sitting down again. "A short bibliography and lecture should get you started. You should take notes."

She had obviously been thinking about this for a while. She at once began to rattle off a list of published resources and their particular merits and foci, her voice oddly but soothingly pedantic. Sherlock grabbed up the pen and paper and began to write quickly.

When he'd covered half a sheet, she stopped. He looked up, and grimaced at the twinkle in her eye. "And now," she said, "the lecture portion of our program: the appropriate care and handling of women. Again, take good notes."

When he was a slightly spotty, skinny thirteen year old, Sherlock's father had ushered him into the privacy of the family library and had sat him down for "the talk", an excruciatingly embarrassing interlude of which he'd failed to delete any portion in the years since, such was the trauma of the event. This lecture of Mary's was nothing like that.

 _Nothing._

 **-o-o-o-**

"Come in! Come in!" exclaimed John, happily. "God, it's been ages since you were over to dinner. Molly you look _ravishing!_ "

And she did, Mary thought. Molly was dressed in a summery dress (in a flowered pattern, of course) held up only by thin straps at her shoulders. Pretty sandals with a kitten heel and a lace knit shawl against the cool of the evening air completed her ensemble. Her long, pale auburn hair flowed down her back, secured by a couple of pretty clips above her temples.

But more than these externals was her relaxed yet glowing happiness. _Like a cat in cream_ , Mary thought with a thrill of satisfaction as she embraced her, murmuring a greeting.

At the same time, Mary glanced up at Sherlock, who was speaking to John. The Consulting Detective, _sans_ Belstaff but wearing his usual impeccably tailored suit and a white dress shirt that must have cost close to three hundred quid, looked more devastatingly handsome than usual, if such a thing were possible, and Mary was certain she could detect a corresponding glow about him, as well. Then his eyes met hers for a brief moment, and a crooked smile touched his lips.

 _Oh. My. God!_

They didn't have a chance to talk privately at all until dinner was well over and John was engrossed in a detailed discussion of gunshot wounds with Molly. This might have seemed singularly impolitic, but it had actually come up in relation to a lurid triple murder that had come to light only the day before. Sherlock and John had been called in, but the case had taken no more than a few hours to solve. The subject now, however, struck a little too close to home for both Mary and Sherlock. Mary retreated to the kitchen first with the excuse that Diana had the night off and she should start the dishes, at least, and Sherlock followed some two minutes later, carrying a stack of plates.

"Thank you." Mary smiled, over her shoulder, as he put them down within her reach.

He picked up a dish towel, prepared to dry as she washed. But he said, quietly, "It's I who should be thanking you, of course."

She stopped washing and looked up at him. The expression on his face was priceless, an odd mixture of shyness and pride that made him look so boyish.… Her heart filled with love of him and, without thinking, she turned to him and embraced him.

He returned the hug, obligingly, but also said, "Mary, you're getting suds and wet all over my suit!"

She chuckled, releasing him. "Oh dear! How awful! We can't have that, can we?"

"Certainly it's hardly commensurate with my dignity as the great Consulting Detective," he said, with facetious hauteur.

More laughter. And then she asked him, "It's all good, then, you and Molly?"

"Indeed it is," he confirmed. "It's all _very_ good."

~,~


	6. Philosophic Progression

_**~ Philosophic Progression ~**_

 _For the "Years" prompt_

 _ **-o-o-o-**_

Sherlock woke first on that rainy Sunday morning, but did not open his eyes, using his other senses to absorb the scene. Contrasting with the cool morning air was a feeling of delicious warmth: the warmth of bed and bedclothes (old sheets worn to silken softness, rivaling the expensive Egyptian cotton ones on his bed in Baker Street; the comfortable weight of blankets and an ancient quilt, pulled close around them, up to their eyes); and above all, the warmth of being curled around a sweet-scented Molly.

She was still deeply asleep, and justly so. He allowed himself to recall the previous night in some detail: Plying her with liquor (Grand Marnier, which had the advantage of imparting an intriguing taste of orange to their kisses); unhurriedly, almost teasingly seducing her; then taking her apart bit by bit - the sounds she made when in the throes of passion where becoming shockingly necessary to him; and then the denouement, the intensity of which had rendered them both trembling, boneless.

My God, it was addictive. And he was getting very good at it.

 _The grit on the lens. The fly in the ointment._

He'd said that - and believed it - not so many years before.

When had that changed?

After his Fall, perhaps? A great deal had happened during those two years, of course. But no, it had begun before that. Perhaps after he'd met John. John Watson. A truly wise man.

 _Caring is not an advantage_. He could hear his brother's supercilious tones so very clearly.

Well, perhaps it wasn't. But, ultimately, did one have a choice?

Molly stirred slightly within his arms.

He kissed the top of her head. "Good morning, Miss Hooper."

His left hand was found, drawn up to her lips for a lingering kiss.

Addictive.

But then she murmured over her shoulder, "Be right back," and squirmed away from him, out from beneath the covers.

He listened to her retreating footsteps, and the faint sounds of her in the loo. Impatience had just begun to materialize when he finally heard her returning.

He opened his eyes to the grey light at last and watched her: small, bare feet making a barely audible padding on the carpet; kitten-bedecked sleep tee neatly straightened; hair brushed, loose, eminently touchable. There was a smile on her lips as she slipped back into bed, and then into his arms.

"You're freezing!" he objected, nonetheless drawing her close.

"I know," she said, kissing him. "Will you accept the case, Mr. Holmes?"

"Mmmm. A nine. Possibly a ten."

"Definitely a ten," she assured him, her cool hand slipping beneath his vest, caressing his back, then further down. "What would John call it on the blog, do you think?"

"John?" he murmured, "We'll have to ask him when we see him next." He found the sensation evoked as she chuckled beneath his kiss profoundly stirring. Focus, determination, a clear goal… he had only to give himself over to deducing his subject.

~.~


	7. A Want of Courage

_**~ A Want of Courage ~**_

 _For the "Red" prompt_

 **-o-o-o-**

Blood on the floor, in the sink, on the large and very sharp chef's knife that lay on the bloody counter by the cutting board full of Chinese vegetables.

Sherlock yelled, " _Molly!_ " and strode from the kitchen.

She was huddled in the loo her left hand wrapped in a bloody towel, tears streaming.

He pulled out his mobile and texted John - SH: Molly injured, come at once - then told her, "John will be here in five minutes, he just left me. Let me see it."

"It's b-bad," she said, tremulously. "The knife… I slipped, or it did, I think. I… oh, Sherlock. So _s-stupid!_ "

She gave a sob as he unwrapped it and wiped away the welling blood. A long cut ran down the pad of flesh at the base of her thumb. "Try to flex your hand," he demanded.

She obeyed, successfully, but gave another sob. "It _hurts!_ " .

"Of course it hurts," he said, voice rough with relief. He wrapped the towel around it again, saying, "I believe it's only a flesh wound. Hopefully John will confirm that and can stitch it up for you."

"That… that's good. But stitches! Oh my God! _I've never had to have stitches!_ "

John walked in three minutes later to find Sherlock sitting on the lidded toilet with Molly on his lap. She was weeping into his coat.

Sherlock said, "She's cut her hand, but I believe it just needs stitching."

John murmured soothingly as he made a thorough examination of the injury. Molly clung to Sherlock and trembled. Presently John said, "Sherlock's right. You're a lucky woman. A dozen or so stitches and you'll be good as new in a couple of weeks - long before the wedding."

"A _dozen_!" Molly almost wailed and burst into fresh sobs..

John looked confused.

Sherlock, refraining from laughter with some effort, said, "Apparently she's never had to undergo such a medical procedure. And don't bring up her own vast experience and expertise in that area. She's already informed me that's not the same thing at all."

John did laugh, though a bit uncertainly. "Well, we can run her over to the A&E. They'd be able to give her a sedative. Take the edge off."

But Molly sat up at that point and tried to pull herself together. "N-no. I'll be alright."

"That's my brave Molly," Sherlock said, bracingly.

She nearly broke down again.

 **-o-o-o-**

Two hours later, it was all over. Mary had shown up when they were about halfway through the procedure and had swiftly cleaned up mess in the the kitchen, called in John's order to the chemist for antibiotic tablets, and Sherlock's order to The Savoy for some very posh take-away ("The manager owes me a favor."). Molly was now curled up on the couch, watching "crap telly" with her favorite people in the world, an afghan over her legs, a soft pillow on her left knee cushioning her neatly bandaged hand, while on the right she balanced a plate of excellent supper of which she'd eaten approximately two bites. She was trying to remember to be cheerful, but mostly she just looked wan, miserable, and not a little mortified.

As the program was ending, Mary got up. "Let me have your plates, I'll clean up in the kitchen before I go. Have to get back to Gracie."

John rose, as well. "Molls, get some rest, yeah? You'll feel better tomorrow."

A few minutes later they were out the door. Sherlock closed it, set the lock, and turned to her. "Bed?".

 **-o-o-o-**

They were lying close in the darkness, Molly's bandaged hand resting on Sherlock's chest, his own hand curled light and warm atop it. He knew she was exhausted, yet she seemed unable to sleep. After a while he kissed her forehead.

She stirred against him and gave an unhappy sigh. "I'm so sorry," she said, quietly.

"Don't be absurd."

"I'm not! I should have shown more _courage_. You must think me ridiculous."

"Nooo. I cried like a baby, too, the first time I had to be stitched up."

"Did you?" She sounded a little comforted. "When was that?"

"I don't remember precisely. I was about four, I believe".

"Four!" Molly exclaimed, and gave a crow of rueful laughter, for the first time that evening. " _Only_ thirty years younger than I. Poor, poor little boy!"

He sniffed. "You should save your pity for Mycroft. I barely remember it, but I think he holds it against me to this day. Our parents were from home and he and the housekeeper had to take me to the clinic - I'd cut my foot on something. He stayed with me the whole time and was treated to full on hysterics when I found out what they were about to do. By the end of it he was thoroughly traumatized. And later Mummy gave him a tremendous scold for permitting me to go without shoes in the garden."

"Oh, poor Mycroft. But… _permitting_ you? That doesn't sound like him, even if he _was_ only eleven."

"It wasn't like him. It's what I told her."

"Sherlock!"

He shrugged. "It was her standing rule I was to wear shoes if I was going outside. I had to think up something to get out of being spanked."

"Your mother? I can't believe she _ever_ spanked you!"

"No. But Mycroft had put it into my head she might - he was a bit rubbish that way. Nevertheless, after I'd given my false testimony, he was furious and wouldn't speak to me for days. I'd relish that now, of course."

"But you didn't, then," she guessed.

He grimaced slightly in the darkness. "We made it up, more or less, just before he went back to school at the end of the week."

"That week must have seemed forever at four years old. Did he make you confess to your mother?"

"Nope."

"Oh, craven! You _were_ a bad 'un. Naughty Sherlock."

"Miss Hooper, you knew what I was before you agreed to marry me."

"So I did. I've made my bed and now must lie in it."

"With me, preferably.."

She chuckled, and curled closer to him. After a pause she said, "We _could_ do a bit more than lie.

"You think so?"

"If we're very careful."

"I can be careful, given sufficient motive."

"And perhaps it would help us sleep."

He smiled and _carefully_ turned toward her. He said in a low voice, soft against her lips, " _Us?_ Well... perhaps it would at that."

~.~


	8. Kryptonite

_**~ Kryptonite ~**_

 _For the "Orange" prompt_

-o-o-o-

"...We were victims of the night,  
The chemical, physical, kryptonite  
Helpless to the bass and the fading light  
Oh, we were bound to get together,  
Bound to get together-"

"MISS HOOPER!"

Molly squeaked and stilled, her soft singing and subtle movements at an end. She removed her earbuds, her eyes wide at Sherlock's tone. He crooked a finger, his own eyes narrowed, and she set down her clipboard and crossed the room toward him, looking a little guilty.

She had been wholly absorbed in her music and in her mundane task of taking the lab's inventory, an onerous chore that the management of Bart's insisted upon every six months. Sherlock and Mike Stamford were also in the lab, at microscopes at opposite sides of the room, and though Mike had been undisturbed by Molly's performance, Sherlock could not say the same.

True, she was dressed in her old way, typical Molly work attire: loose trousers, button down shirt, cable knit cardigan, all in various sepia tones and covered with her white lab coat. But Sherlock, now well aware that there was always more than met the eye about Dr. Molly Hooper, had in addition deduced Certain Things about her that only applied to this day, this moment. Things that, coupled with the quiet, melodious song, and the way she swayed, occasionally taking a few little dancing steps, served to penetrate and subvert his attention to a most frustrating degree. They could not continue in this manner.

"Sorry, got carried away," she said, apologetically, coming up to him and rather shyly reaching out to run her fingers down the lapel of his suit coat. "I know you like it to be very quiet when you work."

"I do," he said in a low voice. "And your apology is accepted. I have only one further comment.."

"What's that?"

"Neon. Orange. Lace. Knickers."

Her brows rose and a blush stole over her cheeks. But then a glint came into her eye and she raised her chin a bit. "Yes. What about them?"

He processed for a moment, but there was no real question now. He rose abruptly, taking her hand from his lapel and retaining it. He addressed their colleague. "Stamford, Dr. Hooper and I are going on break. Please don't disturb my slides, I have them in a certain order. May we bring back some coffee for you?"

Mike, glancing up, shook his head with a smile. "That's kind of you, Sherlock, but no thank you. Enjoy the break."

 **-o-o-o-**

John walked into the lab fifteen minutes later and Mike looked up and smiled. "John! It's good to see you!"

"And you," John replied. "But where's Sherlock? He told me to meet him here at three."

Mike glanced at the clock. "I expect he'll be back in a bit, say half three. He and Molly are have gone on break. Third floor linen storage. But I wouldn't go up."

John stared. "You're joking! How do you know that?"

"Well, it's not the first time, is it? And about a month ago I was up there looking for linens." Seeing John's rather shocked expression, he added, "Heard them, fortunately, before I could touch the door. I made a clean escape."

Relieved, John now began to grin. Devilishly. He said, "You're coming to the Stag Night, right?"

Mike, who in spite of appearances was really very quick on the uptake, grinned back. "Oh, yes. Wouldn't miss it for the _world_."

~.~


	9. Molly Two Point 0

_**~ Molly 2.0 ~**_

 _For the "Yellow" prompt_

 **-o-o-o-**

"You should keep this one," Sherlock said, holding up the yellow dress she'd worn to John and Mary's wedding.

In an effort to spare her injured hand (and really, she was quite dreading the removal of the stitches in two days' time), Sherlock had condescended to help her clean out her closet. This might have seemed an extraordinary indulgence on his part, but when one thought of the attention he gave to his own appearance the matter became clear: One did not achieve that level of sartorial perfection without a sufficient outlay of time and money. Molly might be his love but, in consenting to a formal alliance, she was also destined to serve as an accessory to his fashion statement. To that end, he'd been encouraging her to cultivate, not really a new look, but an enhanced one: "Molly 2.0", as it were. (His words, not hers.)

Unfortunately, as she was still living in the flat she'd occupied since before they'd met, there was no longer room in her "ridiculously small" closet for her new clothing. These acquisitions had been made thanks to their burgeoning joint account and Sherlock's insistence that there was plenty for both the wedding and a judicious makeover. He'd even taken her shopping twice, but his critical presence and the intimidating snobbery of the sales associates in the high-end shops he favored had made her so nervous that she'd gently but firmly dissuaded him from accompanying her on further outings. He'd sulked, but by the end of another week had to admit she was managing perfectly well on her own. Her choices were " a trifle Bohemian", but well-made and stylish.

But they wouldn't fit in the closet.

It had been years since she'd really purged her wardrobe, and his assistance was proving invaluable. He was removing one item at a time, gave his considered opinion of said item, which, happily, often meshed with her own, and then he would carefully rehang the "keepers" while she would add discards to the growing pile on the bed.

But it surprised her that he suggested keeping the yellow dress.

It had looked pretty on her, and not just anyone could wear that particular color. But…

"Are you sure?" she asked. "The wedding was a wonderful event, of course…"

"But perhaps not a day of undiluted joy?"

He gave a wry smile and her heart ached for him all over again. She knew how difficult John's absence from Baker Street had been for him after his return to London, even given his immediate liking for Mary, and the wedding had set the seal on this change in his life. It was barely a month later when John had dragged him into her lab at Bart's, filthy, high, and defiantly claiming this shocking lapse was for a case. The memory of her fury made her a little sick even now - not that it hadn't been justified. But it was the beginning of a rift between them that had lasted for months.

But now the wry smile changed to genuine amusement and he put the dress back in the closet and came to her. "You are so bloody transparent, Molly Hooper, it's like reading a book."

She felt a flush staining her cheeks, and bit her lip. He picked up her hands (taking great care of the left) and kissed each one in turn, then kept them clasped warmly in his. "That dress," he said, "reminds me of the first moment I truly acknowledged to myself that I loved you."

Her eyes widened and she breathed, "Sherlock!"

He nodded. "It's true." He took her in his arms. "But it wasn't that you looked beautiful that day - like a ray of sunshine come to life. Nor was it the terror and encouragement I could plainly read on your face as I gave my… er… speech."

She smiled up at him, at that memory: a truly unique discourse. But… "What was it, then?" She had to know… this was such an unexpected revelation…

He bent closer, a glint in his eye, and his voice was low, and very intimate as he said, "It was, my Molly, the moment you stabbed your fiance in the hand with your fork," and kissed her.

~.~


	10. Dragon Slayer

_**~ Dragon Slayer ~**_

 _For the "Green" prompt_

-o-o-o-

The night was a black one, and cold for early summer, but there had been some little danger involved, and an international incident to avoid, reason enough for Mycroft to have taken a hand in overseeing matters. But of course there had been also the _additional factor_.

The police - Lestrade, Donovan, and even Anderson - had contributed in their usual workmanlike fashion, and he'd observed that Sherlock and Donovan had settled their differences somewhere along the line. More or less. At least Sherlock was once again willing to acknowledge Sergeant Donovan's existence, and she, for her part, had not addressed him as "Freak" all evening. Very likely the hostage situation Sherlock had helped to resolve back in March had broken the ice, Sergeant Donovan having been one of said hostages and sustaining injury at the hands of the perpetrator. The man had paid dearly for his daring. Sherlock had not been pleased.

His little brother could be so impulsive at times.

Yet there it was again: the _additional factor._ Mycroft had been… not doubtful, but _uncertain_ of Sherlock's current capabilities before he'd reached tonight's scene. Sherlock and John Watson had not been precisely idle in the last few months, having solved no less than nine cases for very high profile clients. Yet none of those cases had posed any sort of challenge to Sherlock, and Mycroft had been forced to conclude that his brother was doing them strictly for the money.

Rather sordid. And hardly conducive in keeping Sherlock's valuable skills honed to something near perfection.

The development could only be laid at the door of Dr. Molly Hooper.

Mycroft did not object to marriage as such. His own parents had a most successful one, after all. But he was still quite convinced that the _feelings_ involved were a distinct liability. In a world that needed a blunt instrument - a _dragon slayer_ \- like Sherlock Holmes, the more tender emotions should be discouraged, if not entirely suppressed.

But this was hardly the first time Sherlock had failed to heed his advice.

Things were wrapping up. Lestrade said, with a grin, "All right, we're good to go,then, I think. Shall we all repair to the pub for a _debriefing_?"

Donovan and Anderson readily agreed to this, and John Watson said, "I'm in - Mary won't mind, she's already in bed. Gracie's still not sleeping through the night and we're both generally knackered by this time. But the adrenaline, yeah? I could use a drink."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock with something of a sly look. "And what about you, mate?"

Sherlock appeared to deprecate Lestrade's amusement, but only to a degree. "No," he said. "My pathologist is off shift in an hour, and I gather from her occasional texts she's had a difficult time of it this evening. I believe I'll meet her at Bart's and take her home."

Lestrade, foregoing any further teasing, presumably in light of what might be considered a "difficult time of it" in Dr. Hooper's line of work, said merely, "Give her our love, then. It was good tonight, Sherlock. You and John, well, not sure what we would've done without you."

"Thank you, George," Sherlock drawled. "It's good of you to say so."

John chuckled and said to Sherlock, "See you at the surgery in the morning, then?"

"Yes. The momentous Removal of the Stitches. I'll come along to lend her moral support."

John rolled his eyes. "Lord love us. Tomorrow, then." He looked over at Mycroft and gave a friendly wave goodnight.

Sherlock cracked a smile as John and the others departed

Mycroft came to stand beside him. "So, Sherlock," he said, sweetly, "A retreat to Miss Hooper's charms and the comforts of domestic bliss. Not bored yet, little brother?"

Sherlock slowly turned to him, eyes narrowing, making a brief but uncomfortably discerning study of Mycroft's face. Mycroft carefully schooled his expression and raised a brow.

But Sherlock's lips curled contemptuously. "You're jealous!" he said. " _Envious_. Bloody _green_ with it."

Mycroft sniffed. "Don't be absur-"

" _That's_ why you came out tonight. You thought I was losing my touch."

Mycroft raised a brow, and was pleased at the calm in his voice. "You did well tonight, I admit. But Sherlock, caring is still not an advantage."

But Sherlock only looked at him with increasing pity, and finally said, "Good night, brother mine. Enjoy your solitude and brandy - _and_ your cold bed." And he walked away.

Mycroft, for a moment, struggled against some (quite unsuppressable) negative emotion. But he quickly pulled himself together. Sherlock's safety and happiness were still an imperative, after all. Dr. Hooper's addition to the equation did not appear to throw off the final balance at present. One could not, of course, foresee the future. But Sherlock, ever reckless in the pursuit of his objectives, appeared to be determined to take the risk.

~.~


	11. Hen Night

_**~ Hen Night ~**_

 _For the "Blue" prompt_

-o-o-o-

Sherlock's preparations had been most thorough: He was dressed entirely in black and was sans his all too distinctive Belstaff; had pinched a pair of the British government's latest technology in night vision goggles; and finally, had greased the right palm, that of Jimmy Swank, aka James Alistair Pratt, formerly of Sherlock's bad old days at university, currently part owner and manager of London's premier male strip club, BoyToys. The notice out front might read, "Gentlemen prohibited while show is in progress: Ladies only", but Jimmy's office was in the back, accessed via a dimly lit alley, and Sherlock was no gentleman. At least in this instance.

"Ten minutes, Shezza," Pratt said, a warning in his voice as he led Sherlock down a hallway to an unobtrusive back door to the performance area, "and if the bouncers catch you, I'm denying everything."

Sherlock nodded and, opening the door, slipped inside.

He had made an effort to put a good face on Molly's attendance at her Hen Night. Tradition and social convention were not to be eschewed lightly, after all. And really, he wasn't even certain why he was disturbed by her friends' plans: drinks (and gifts of such items as skimpy babydoll lingerie, crotchless knickers, and sex toys, if Mary Watson was to be believed) at Little Nan's 90's Party Bar, followed by a Japanese teppanyaki dinner at Matsuri, and then… Pratt's notorious establishment.

Sherlock had been oddly taken aback by Molly's eager anticipation to watch a series of burly males strip and dance naked before her - "I've never been to one of those clubs before. This will be _fun!_ ". But the final straw was the ensemble she'd acquired for the event.

"Do you like it?" she'd asked, parading before him in her latest fashion acquisition, a short A-line frock. It was a simple garment of a subtly glittering deep blue voile lined with matching satin, yet the fitted bodice with its low-cut princess decolletage had made her appear almost voluptuous, the trio of thin straps over each shoulder accented to perfection their delicate skin and the shape of bone and muscle, and the flaring skirt flowed enticingly over (what he'd long suspected and now _knew_ to be) her perfect backside.

He'd made little verbal reply, but it had not taken him more than two minutes to get her out of the dress and into bed.

And if he'd found her Hen Night ensemble so inspiring, might not others be similarly affected?

But now, standing in the deep shadows, his whole being inundated by the throbbing bass of the music, he took a detailed surveillance of BoyToys' main theatre - a large round, artfully lit dance floor set off from the surrounding tables and open spaces by a sturdy waist-high railing - and he could see that the only males in the room were the two bouncers (big but stupid, easy enough to avoid) and the dancer himself, one of five who would perform that evening.

The man was even now in the final stages of rhythmically stripping off what appeared to be a tear-away policeman's uniform. A fit and very muscular body was revealed, the man's privates kept so only by a sequined G-string. Sherlock grimaced, but not only at the thought of enduring such discomfort.

An intentionally seductive performer, the dancer was surrounded on all sides by a writhing mass of hooting, laughing, whistling, shouting, even screaming women. Some of those nearest the railing held out crumpled banknotes to be tucked into the elastic of his G-string when the man would trot close enough. He thanked them with grins, air kisses, or perhaps a shimmy to match that of his patroness, but the women were warned off if they tried to make further physical contact - apparently against the rules. The scene was unhinged depravity, not quite mass hysteria, but something very like.

And Molly, _his Molly_ , was somewhere in this crowd.

He studied the females individually, now, and presently found Molly's flock of Hens, which included not only a number of her Bart's co-workers and old friends from uni, but Mary Watson (hooting and writhing with the best of them) and - _oh my God_ \- both their mothers! Sherlock gaped at the sight of Mummy laughing and shrieking something colorful while enthusiastically holding out a ten pound note.

He nearly fled, there and then. But he had still had not caught sight of his betrothed, so he steeled himself and pulled out the night vision goggles. After some adjustment he was able to see deeper into the dim, away from the stage, and presently he did catch sight of Molly, some way behind Mary, swaying, clapping, smiling - when she remembered to do so. Watching her closely, it became (gratifyingly) obvious to him that she was not entirely swept up in the pandemonium. She was hanging back. Keeping up appearances, so to speak. And Sherlock suspected - no, knew - that these efforts were made to spare her friends (and, God help them, _family_ ) disappointment at her lack of enthusiasm.

Sherlock was suddenly aware of feeling very strange, as though some great weight had been lifted. He refused to analyse it further, but found himself unable to suppress a small huff of relief and the thought, _All is well_.

It was approaching two in the morning by the time Sherlock was roused from his doze on Molly's couch as the door of the flat quietly opened and she entered. Setting down her wrap, handbag, and a largish gift bag, she came to him, smiling, and he shifted a bit, allowing her room to sit by him on the edge of the couch. She leaned forward, brushed his hair from his forehead and kissed it.

"How was it?" he asked, his voice sleepy, caressing her hip, his calloused fingers catching a little in the soft voile of her frock.

"It was fun!" she said. "Wait until you see all the funny gifts."

"Funny?"

"Well… _sexy_ . In a funny sort of way. You'll like them, I think." Her eyes twinkled.

He chuckled. "So it all went as planned? Who was there?"

Her smile slipped. "Yes, pretty much as planned. The chefs we had at Matsuri were really brilliant, so entertaining. And the food was delicious!"

Sherlock nodded, then prompted, "And BoyToys? Did it live up to expectation?"

Her smile slipped even further. "Well… no."

"No?" He frowned an inquiry.

She bit her lip, then said, worriedly, "Sherlock… do you think I'm a prude?"

He stared - she was quite serious - and then laughed outright and took her hand in his. "In light of the significant, intriguing, and increasingly varied evidence I've gathered during the last two months, I'd have to give that query a resounding _no_ ." He kissed her hand, and allowed himself a wolfish grin.

Predictably, adorably, she blushed.

"But what makes you ask, my Molly?" he asked.

She frowned. "It was BoyToys! I… it… the men - the dancers - were very talented, of course. Very good performers. But… they were rather beefy. And sweaty. The lights, must be very hot, of course, and they are very _energetic_ dancers. But…"

"But… not quite what you like?"

"No!" Her consternation was evident. "And I couldn't help feeling that way, but I felt ridiculous, too! All those women - certainly everyone in my party - your _mother_ , Sherlock! _My_ mother!" She looked most distressed."They all loved it. And I…"

"Didn't?"

"No."

"Well, perhaps you prefer something rather more cerebral ?" He moved his fingers lightly, ruching up her skirt to reveal a length of thigh, the top of her silk stocking, the garter fastening it…

And at that she began to smile again. "Yes. Cerebral. _And_ gorgeous ."

He chuckled, pulling her down against his chest, his hand now slipping under her skirt. Her own fingers ruffled the hair on either side of his head, and she drew close, but before she could kiss him he said to her in low and seductive tones, " _I_ can dance."

"Can you, now?" Her eyes lit with laughter - and love. "Show me!"

~.~


	12. The Stag Do -or- Sex Holiday in Paris

_**~ The Stag Do -or- Molly's Sex Holiday in Paris ~**_

 _ **For the "Purple" prompt**_

-o-o-o-

Molly hadn't minded taking an extra shift at Bart's so that Mike Stamford could attend Sherlock's Stag Do. She felt she needed the distraction. Sherlock had for days veered from childish whinging to snappish ill-temper and back again in his dread of the event, which, he had discovered, had been planned jointly and with the utmost secrecy by John _and_ Mycroft and was scheduled to last some fifteen hours, give or take. His dismay had been expressed almost solely to Molly, however, and it was with a fairly good grace that Sherlock had at last climbed into the big Land Rover that had pulled up in front of Molly's building at nine a.m. sharp to whisk him away .

"Don't wait up for us, Molls!" John had called to her, grinning giddily and waving as they'd driven off.

She'd waved back from the curb, silently thankful that she wouldn't _have_ to wait up: Sherlock had told her he'd stay in Baker Street that night, in consideration of possible after effects, and would meet her for lunch the next day to tell her all about it, hopefully fully recovered by that time.

"Poor darling," she murmured to herself, not quite suppressing the urge to giggle, and took herself off to work.

She did not hear from him all that day, neither text nor call, and hoped that this meant that all was well, that he was having a much better time than anticipated. This hope sustained her throughout her double shift, and was only shattered when she'd at last reached home, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the couch, around midnight. She was contentedly scritching Toby behind the ears when her mobile rang.

It was Mrs. Hudson.

"Molly, dear, I hate to disturb you, but it's Sherlock. I think he may need some help, but he just tells me to go away, that he doesn't need me."

"Is he more than just tipsy?" Molly asked and frowned. "John should have seen to him!"

"He would have, I think, only Sherlock waved him off, too, him _and_ Lestrade. The rumpus they made, bringing him in! But he seemed alright until they left. I'm afraid he was just putting a good face on things for them. He could barely get up the stairs, and it wasn't just the drink. I think he's injured himself somehow!"

"Injured! In what way? And how could John not notice?"

"Well, you know how Sherlock is, most of the time. He told _me_ it was nothing, too. But he was limping quite badly, and he looks very flushed - I think he may have a fever!"

 _Good God!_ "OK. I'll be there as soon as I can, Mrs. Hudson."

"Thank you, dear. I'll keep an eye on him until you arrive."

Mrs. Hudson, wearing her dressing gown and slippers, her hair still mussed, was hovering on the landing by Sherlock's open door, wringing her hands. "Thank goodness you're here!" she exclaimed as Molly ran up the stairs to her. "Only I'm afraid he's been sick. He's been in the loo these twenty minutes."

She and Molly both entered the flat, Mrs. Hudson hanging back, while Molly strode toward the closed door down the hall. When she was almost there a loud thump was heard from inside the loo, and she and Mrs. Hudson exchanged startled glances before she turned back to the door. " _Sherlock!_ _Are you alright?_ "

There was rather a long pause, and then one word. "Ow."

Molly jiggled the door handle. Locked. "Sherlock, let me in," Molly called to him firmly. "Can you unlock the door?"

There were some shuffling sounds, and at length a click sounded as the lock gave way. Molly tried to open the door, but met resistance.

"Justa sec," came Sherlock's slurred tones. There was more shuffling, and finally a groan. "Right," he said, sounding defeated.

Molly opened the door and gaped at him, while Mrs. Hudson cooed in sympathy, looking over her shoulder. Their beloved, beautiful Sherlock, the great Consulting Detective, was sitting on the tile floor with his legs stretched out as much as possible, leaning back against the vanity unit that housed the sink, next to the open toilet. His fine dress shirt was unbuttoned and a little stained and his trousers were gathered around his ankles - it looked like he'd been trying to get them off but had forgotten about his shoes. His modesty was more or less preserved by briefs in an attractive plaid cotton fabric, but his semi-trouserless state also revealed a livid purple bruise on the side of his left leg, covering an area from just above his knee almost to the middle of his calf, and the width of Molly's hand. He was indeed injured, and flushed, too, as Mrs. Hudson had said, but now, crouching quickly next to him and peering at him closely, Molly could see that it was no fever - or no real illness, at least.

"You're sunburnt!" she said. "And your leg! Sherlock, what happened? Why didn't you tell John you were hurt?"

"Paintball happened," he said, sadly. "And it's not that bad, didn't bother me much before. I didn't know how bad it looked 'til I tried to get undressed just now."

"Paintball!" Molly exclaimed, half laughing.

Sherlock laughed too, but rather mirthlessly. "Yes. Stupid. John wanted to do it. Thought it'd be _fun_."

Martha Hudson broke in, saying to Molly, "It looks like he'll live, but call me if you need anything, dear."

Molly smiled at her. "Thank you, I will," and Sherlock blew his landlady an extravagant and rather clumsy kiss, cracking a crooked grin.

When Mrs. Hudson had gone, however, Sherlock's grin faded to a grimace.

"Let's get some of these clothes off, shall we?" said Molly briskly, and set about removing his shoes, socks, and then the trousers. "So paintball? Who participated? John, of course..."

"Six of us, John and Anderson were on my team, and Mycroft, Lestrade, and Stamford formed the other. It _was_ good fun, at first. But then I fell and bashed my leg. And the sun was so bloody hot!"

"It does get that way in the summer. Were the others burned as well?"

"No. Mycroft'd put on sunscreen, and they all had hats, all but me. Bloody Mycroft. And he fucking _cheated!_ "

"Cheated? In what way?"

Sherlock ignored this to continue the brotherly abuse. " _Bastard_. Well, not bastard,really _-_ pretty sure Mummy wouldn't've played m'father false. But he's a fucking cheat, just the same. Should've taken him out - I could do it, too, you know. He may be smarter, but he's rubbish at fighting."

"But you didn't?"

"No," he said, morosely. "Just carried on. John and I did our best, but Anderson was fucking _useless!_ As tits on a bull." This last enunciated with great and lilting precision. He gave Molly a coy look, adding, "As the saying goes."

She gave a little snort of laughter. "Oh, too bad. But he _is_ only a forensics specialist. I must say, I can't really imagine Mycroft playing paintball. The mind boggles."

"Mmmm. He does surprise one at times. _And_ he cheats. But he made it up to me later."

"That's good. How so?"

"He had rooms reserved for us at the Connaught, and a private banquet room, too, paid for the whole thing. We all got cleaned up and went for drinks downstairs - they've a couple of good bars. And then we repaired to the banquet room for dinner and champagne. The food was quite tolerable."

"I expect so! It _is_ afive star hotel." Molly, had by this time set his shoes and socks aside, removed his wadded trousers and now stood up to fold them.

Sherlock went on. "The conversation left something to be desired. They each had half a dozen horrible stories about me, with Mycroft leading the pack, of course. He's a bloody rubbish big brother."

Molly chuckled. "He's a generous one, though."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, scowling. But then he brightened. "But I didn't tell you the best part. He got dancers! Girls direct from Paris - _Folies Bergère!_ "

"Really?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling dreamily. "A half dozen of 'em, one for each of us, and the prettiest things you ever saw. And lively! God, they were all over the place, high kicks and cartwheels, and those ruffled skirts! The energy of 'em was fantastic! Your bloody BoyToys policeman and his sequinned G-string had _nothing_ on them!"

And the smile was wiped from Molly's face. _"_ My _… Sherlock!"_

Her reaction was not lost on him, even though he was considerably more than half-cut. He frowned. "What?" But then a startled expression dawned. "Oh! Never mind. Shouldn't have said that last bit." He put his long index finger against his lips - " _Shhhhh!_ " - then pointed the finger at her: "Delete delete delete!"

"I will _not_ delete!" she said, indignantly. "Sherlock Holmes, you spied on me, didn't you? On _all_ of us!"

"Noooo-"

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't fib!"

He looked up at her sadly. "All right. But it was ten minutes. I swear."

"How did you even get in?" she demanded.

"I know Pratt. The manager."

"Jimmy Swank?"

Sherlock nodded. "Went to uni with him. Well, 'til he got sent down that last time."

Molly pursed her lips and glared at him. "We will discuss this further when you've had some sleep-"

" _Noooo!_ " he now moaned, and slumped to the side, leaning disconsolately against the toilet.

"-but right now I'll go make up an ice pack for your leg. Do you want to try moving to the bed?"

He gave a great sigh and began the strenuous task of getting up off the floor. She helped him as much as she could, and presently he was on his feet, swaying a bit.

And turning an interesting shade of green. "Bad idea," he said in a strangled voice, and quickly knelt before the porcelain god once more.

Molly shook her head and went to the kitchen, ignoring the pitiful retching sounds coming from the loo as best she could.

A few minutes later, when she returned with the ice pack, she found him lying on the floor, the toilet within easy reach, resting his cheek against the cool tile. "I'll just stay here for a bit," he muttered.

She went to his bedroom. fetched a blanket, then came back and arranged the ice pack against that dreadful bruise, and covered him.

"Thank you," he said, sleepily.

"You're welcome."

"Just one other thing."

"What's that?"

"Can you make the room stop spinning?"

She slept in his bed, and at five in the morning woke very briefly to the sound of the shower running. Dozing while he finished, she was presently roused once more as he climbed in with her. She drew him close. He was still slightly damp around the edges, and smelled appreciably fresher than he had a few hours ago.

"Much better," she murmured, and kissed his forehead.

He only sighed, and curled closer, and fell asleep.

The sun was bright through the slit in the curtains when they woke at mid morning. They lay still, listening to the quiet sounds of Mrs. Hudson coming in to set a tray of tea and fresh baked scones on the kitchen table and then taking her leave. When the door had closed, they both relaxed, and Sherlock kissed her, tentatively at first, and then with slowly mounting passion.

He was gently sucking on her neck when she whispered in his ear, "I've decided to forgive you for spying on us at BoyToys."

He stiffened suddenly, and not in the good way. She fought against a smile as he pulled back to look at her. "I… said something about that, did I?"

"You did. Confession is, of course, good for the soul."

He winced. "I've always found it extremely inconvenient. Sometimes painfully so."

She chuckled.

His hands began to move over her, deliciously. "But… you forgive me?"

She kissed him. "I do, And further, I will promise not to tell Mary or your Mother-on one condition."

He stilled again, and eyed her warily. "And what might that be?"

"That you take me to Paris as soon as possible to see the _Folies Bergère."_

He gave a crooked smile, relieved, but said, "But we're going to Italy. The reservations are all made."

"We can go on a second honeymoon. In the spring."

He made a show of pondering this, saying slowly, "Hmmm. A spring sex holiday in Paris with my favorite pathologist. With punishment of that severity I believe I should consider misbehaving more often." He assumed a comically pleading look and whined, " _Please ma'am, may I have another?_ "

She burst out laughing, and as he nuzzled her she hugged him with one arm and slid her other down, her hand slipping under the elastic edge of the plaid briefs to suggestively caress his truly excellent arse.

"Vixen," he murmured.

"Perhaps," she returned, "you are ready to admit that confession _is_ good for the soul?"

"Oh, yes. Anything you like, Miss Hooper," he said. " _Anything._ "

~.~


	13. Scene from a Rehearsal

_**~ Scene from a Rehearsal -or- Carrot vs. Stick ~**_

 _For the "Brown" prompt_

-o-o-o-

They were Sherlock's second cousins, the ring bearer eight years of age, his sister, the flower girl, six and a half, both adorable, but their behavior toward each other frequently less so. John, diligent in his role of Best Man, had reached his limit the previous evening and had put the fear of God into them, or so he'd thought. Now he swore under his breath when, halfway down the aisle, Reginald trod on little Rose's toes, possibly by accident, and she, having no such faith, retaliated by smacking her brother in the head with the small brown wicker basket which would, on the morrow, be filled with rose petals for her to scatter.

John started forward, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm, uttering a single word,"No," the word, firm, non-negotiable, and loud enough to echo in the vast space of the ancient edifice. Everyone was startled, and the two young miscreants looked up, their eyes widening as their cousin left his place at the altar and advanced upon them where they stood, halfway up the aisle. Rose suddenly abandoned animosity and clutched at her brother, who took her hand and gripped it, visibly steeling himself.

Sherlock, reaching the pair, towered over them briefly before crouching down and addressing them, his low, serious tone audible but unintelligible except to the children. They listened, wary and attentive, but John could see their expressions gradually lightening, and then relieved smiles broke out. There was some soft, eager conversation, and then Sherlock, stood up again, awkwardly patted them on their heads, and walked back to John and the rest of the wedding party.

There was both bemusement and annoyance on his face.

"What did you tell the little beggars?" John asked.

Sherlock winced. "They drive a hard bargain, but I fancy they may behave, at least through the ceremony tomorrow."

"I suppose you bribed them."

"I did, tour of Bart's morgue for Reg, the children's tea at the Chesterfield for Rose."

John chuckled. "You are a bloody soft touch, mate."

Sherlock shrugged. "I doubt payment will be required, I can't see them lasting through the reception. But in dealing with children, and having been one myself in the distant past, I've found the carrot to be a great deal more effective than the stick,"

And John, watching the now-cherubic children scurry back toward the church doors (where the smiling bride still waited) to make a second, much more careful attempt at their roles, had to admit that Sherlock was once more proven to be a wise man.

~.~


	14. Wedding Pictures

_**~ Wedding Pictures ~**_

 _For the "Black" prompt_

-o-o-o-

Morning dress: grey pinstriped trousers, paler grey waistcoat, pristine white shirt, tie and pocket square in the bride's favorite aubergine. And the black coat over all, which struck him as weirdly symbolic.

He rarely permitted himself to think of Redbeard, but now he took out that final memory, still painful two decades later. Running away had not saved the dear friend he'd grown up with. It had, however, turned his own incipient cold to a severe pneumonia which, coupled with unbridled grief, had nearly killed him.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

Mycroft was never wrong. Sherlock had accepted his brother's maxim in order to survive. But for many years, he had not survived _well_.

 _All lives end. All hearts break._

Darkness always hovered close. To love, yet face that with eyes wide open, took a great deal of courage.

Fortunately Molly Elizabeth Hooper had enough courage to sustain them both.

-o-o-o-

They'd opted, in the end, for the Anglican rite.

Sherlock had shrugged his acquiescence, their own vows having been spoken long since…

 _What do you need?_

 _You!_

… and the traditional words would please their parents, and lend formality to the occasion.

But he'd asked, "Isn't there supposed to be an _obey_ in there somewhere?" Only half joking. Being Mrs. Sherlock Holmes might, at some point, prove dangerous. "What if it's important?"

"I'll obey you when it's important, and you'll obey me when it's important," she said, amusement and understanding in her eyes.

After brief consideration, he'd nodded. "Fair enough."

-o-o-o-

John, as Best Man, took his place at the foot of the altar and kept a surreptitious eye on the groom as the rest of the bridal party slowly moved toward them in time with the music. Sherlock seemed to be holding up fairly well. A little paler than usual, perhaps, but who wouldn't be with nearly three hundred guests crowding the pews, and many of them relatives he'd not set eyes on in years. Still, Sherlock held himself together and even managed to give the ringbearer and flower girl an approving nod as they completed their journey with appropriate decorum.

But then the music changed, swelled, and the entire congregation stood as the bride appeared at the door of the church, her hand light on her uncle's arm. And, with a glance at Sherlock, John knew all bets were off.

Mary had gushed about Molly's gown.

 _Oh my God, I can't wait to see Sherlock's face! It's just perfect! Just a simple A-line with a round train and bateau neck, but the whole thing's the most gorgeous lace over satin with a sprinkling of pearls and just enough sequins to set it off._

Frankly, it hadn't sounded that impressive to John, and he'd even worried vaguely about the advisability of sequins.

But, watching Molly drift toward them now, subtly aglow in the rays of morning light, a half smile just discernable beneath her sheer veil, it was obvious that Mary had been correct: John had never seen a more beautiful bride, save for Mary herself (and of course he had to admit to extreme prejudice in that case).

And Sherlock…

 _Uh oh._

John quickly gave him a quick, sharp poke. "All right, mate?"

Sherlock, startled, glanced down and John met his eyes in silent, pointed communication. And apparently it worked. Sherlock pulled himself together, shifting, straightening, his extreme pallor easing to a more normal hue.

"It'll all be over soon," John murmured in his most comforting bedside manner. " _Unto the breach_ , yeah?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, and to John's relief there was laughter in the low-voiced reply: "Indeed. _The game's afoot!_ "

-o-o-o-

The solemn recitation of the vows, the exchange of rings… it all weighed on Sherlock far more than he'd anticipated. And that first kiss as husband and wife, before God and everybody. And then the recessional, feeling (though hopefully not _looking_ ) like some blushing, callow boy, the triumphal organ music reverberating in his bones, engulfed by the enthusiasm of the mob. When they finally reached the church doors and moved out into the sunshine, all Sherlock wanted to do was snatch up his bride (the one flawless feature of the whole event) and beat a precipitate retreat to somewhere entirely private.

This was, of course, out of the question.

Sherlock managed to smile and reply politely through the first greetings and congratulations as the crowd exited the church, milling about them. And then there were the endless - _ENDLESS!_ \- photographs. His one comfort, again, was his bride, balm to his soul in her beautiful gown, the veil a lovely transparent wisp about her shoulders (he longed to draw it aside and kiss the back of her neck, deliciously exposed by her neat updo).

And then at last it was over (for the moment), and he gratefully followed Molly into the back of the limousine that would carry them to the reception. The door was closed, and they were alone.

Sherlock sighed, and slouched wearily on the leather seat. "The things I do for you, woman."

There was a rustling, and from somewhere about her person Molly produced an elegant little silver flask. His brows rose as she silently presented it to him.

"Thought you might need it," she said, both laughter and sympathy in her voice. "For medicinal purposes,"

He opened it and took a swig. Brandy. Of the best. _Oh, the heavenly, fortifying heat of it…_

He took another, then handed it back to her, quite willing to share. He said to her, "Have I told you lately that you're the best wife _ever_?"

She chuckled, nearly choking. "No! This would be the first time, actually." She took one more sip, then returned the flask to him.

"Well, it bloody well won't be the last," he assured her and, snaking an arm about her slender waist, he slid her close for an extended, brandy-flavored kiss.

-o-o-o-

"Sherlock actually seems to be enjoying himself," Mary observed as she and Molly made their way back from the very elegant ladies lounge, adjacent to the hotel's ballroom where the reception was being held.

"Yes, though he didn't much like the receiving line," Molly chuckled. "You should have seen his great aunt speaking to him as though he were still a grubby schoolboy. I thought Mycroft was going to burst a seam, trying not to laugh - but then _he_ was felled by her wit, too. "

Mary grinned. "No respect for the British government among great aunts. But Sherlock's _not_ much more than a grubby schoolboy, except when he's all posh condescension. But you'll keep him hovering in the middle. He seems almost human today, for example. The dancing! You must have practiced for hours!"

"We did. Sherlock loves dancing! It's the musician in him."

"Ah, yes. One tends to forget about that."

"Forget about what?" Sherlock demanded, coming up behind them. Molly whirled with a smile, and Sherlock caught her hands, his eyes warm.

Mary shook her head. "That you are an incurable romantic, Sherlock Holmes. But we're on to you, now."

Sherlock sniffed - "Ridiculous!" - then straightaway said to his wife, "Will you come dance with me, Mrs. Holmes?"

"I will, Mr. Holmes," Molly said happily.

Mary threw up her hands as Molly was led away. Then she looked about her. Sherlock's parents had barely left the dance floor since dinner ended. Mycroft was standing about, glass in hand, looking oddly pleased with himself. Greg Lestrade was chatting up a chic, dark-haired young woman who had been introduced as one of Sherlock's French cousins. Anderson and Sally Donovan were giggling over a bottle of champagne. And just behind the still uncut cake (several tiers of white topped by a mountain of fresh mixed berries) the flower girl could be glimpsed licking frosting from one small finger.

Mary's eyes narrowed. First that rascally Rose must be nipped in the bud and then she needed to find John. The new Mr. and Mrs. Holmes weren't the only ones who loved to dance!

-o-o-o-

"You were right, you know," Mycroft said. "That night two months ago. I _was_ envious. I still am."

Straightforward honesty was so rare a thing between them. Sherlock, appropriately shocked, asked in a wry tone, "Have you had too much to drink?"

Mycroft lifted his brows, and then his glass, examining it. Half empty. "Perhaps so.."

His brother smiled. "Well, you've good reason to be envious. Wish me happy?"

Mycroft peered at him. "I've always wished you happy, Sherlock. Since the day you were born and your nappie leaked onto my trouser leg when I held you that first time."

Sherlock gave a shout of laughter,

Mycroft, fighting down a grin, added, "But in this instance I feel it's almost a given."

He nodded toward Sherlock's bride, standing some distance away across the wide, crowded room. She was speaking to their mothers and some of the older women, a small, winking flame of white against the others' more colorful hues. She was laughing in apparent delight, and looked very beautiful.

Mycroft noted his brother's besotted expression and said. "Care for her well, brother mine."

And Sherlock replied, "I will," serious for once. "To the best of my not inconsiderable ability."

~.~


	15. Best Laid Plans

_**~ Best Laid Plans ~**_

 _For the "White" prompt_

-o-o-o-

It was the morning after, and Sherlock woke slowly to soft sounds: footsteps on thick carpet, heavy drapes sliding apart a few inches. He opened his eyes.

Molly was at the window of their bridal suite, looking out the narrow opening at what appeared to be a very gray, rainy day. She was wearing only the sheer white robe of the peignoir set her mother had given her, and the shadowed silhouette of her slender form was tantalizingly lovely. But she wasn't smiling, and his heart gave a guilty twinge.

He roused himself and got out of bed.

She did smile, then, looking up as he came to her.

He set his hands at her waist. "Good morning, Mrs. Holmes. Are you very upset with me?"

Her brows twitched together. "Of course not! Why would I-Oh!" The smile returned. "Because you fell asleep last night?"

"Mmmm. Failing in my duty to you right from the start. Though I must say, you were taking bloody forever in the shower."

"I know. But I had to wash all that horrid stuff out of my hair. You wouldn't have liked it at all."

He stroked the now unadulterated auburn tresses with the backs of his fingers. "Probably not," he agreed. "But why weren't you smiling just now? Do you mind the rain?"

"No! It makes it a perfect day to… to lie abed." Her voice trailed off at these last words.

Sherlock eyed her narrowly. "What is it? No, don't tell me… er… _Aunt Flow's in town_ ?"

She grinned at the silly euphemism, but the grin disappeared rather quickly. She cleared her throat and stammered, "J-just the opposite, in fact." And suddenly she was blushing furiously, her gaze dropping to a point just above his heart. She placed her hand against his chest, stroking lightly. "Do you remember last month? When I… um..."

Oh.

 _Oh!_

"When you couldn't get enough of me?" He leered a bit. He remembered most vividly, in fact. "I thought that's what you wanted. What _we_ wanted. Why you've been off the pill for months." He raised her chin with one insistent finger, bent and kissed her lips, then ran a trail of kisses up her cheek, smiling at her dramatically indrawn breath, and the way her hands caught at his arms.

She said, almost in a whisper. "I _dreamt_ of you this morning. One of _those_ dreams. I almost woke you but then I realized… all the symptoms are there.I know we'd planned to start trying…"

His hands roved over her, and she trembled and reached up, standing on tiptoe to put her arms about his neck. His lips moved toward her ear. "Are you afraid, sweetheart?"

She pushed back to look up at him, distressed. "I don't know. Maybe. I just feel… it will be a _certainty_ , rather than only a _possibility_. Aren't _you_ afraid?"

"Well… I have to say that's rather far down the list of things I'm concerned about at the moment."

And suddenly she chuckled. "What's on this list, then?"

"First is the fact that we haven't had sex in nearly two weeks-"

"To make our wedding night something _special_! " she protested.

"If by special you mean listening to me snoring.."

She rolled her eyes. "The morning _after_ the wedding night, then. What else?"

"Last month, since you mention it. And this time we won't have to worry about running out of condoms."

She blushed again, and he had to kiss her for a bit.

But back to business. He steadied her before him and slid the sheer robe off her shoulders to pool on the floor. "Then there are these disturbing symptoms of which you speak. Abdominal cramping?" He drew her close and placed his other hand warm against the skin of her lower abdomen.

She nodded, sadly. "Yes. I took something for that."

"Good. Tender breasts, as well?" He moved his hand up to cup firm, rounded flesh, his thumb brushing the coral of a perfect nipple.

"Oh, yes!" She sounded somewhat breathless, but not displeased.

He continued, seductively, "An alteration in basal temperature, with increased vaginal secretions…" and kissed her, holding her firmly as his hand slid down again, lower, his fingers brushing the damp curls, then slipping within so very easily.

She gasped, arching against him, hands clutching.

He murmured, "Gracious! You _are_ in a state!" Her expression lay somewhere on the border of agony and ecstasy as he continued to tease, but presently he noted an increasingly frantic edge to her reactions - not to mention the strengthening imperative of his own.

 _Enough_.

He said in a lewd, yet pedantic drawl,"And then, of course, there is greatly enhanced sexual desire, a symptom that I think you'll agree is best explored from a prone position?" And with that, he swept her up, grinning at her startled squeak, and carried her back to bed.

~.~


End file.
